


Unbreakable Camels

by Lothithil



Category: MacGyver (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-01-27
Updated: 2006-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothithil/pseuds/Lothithil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a sequel to 'The Art of Smuggling Camels'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hotfoot

**Author's Note:**

> Like our hero MacGyver... I have a problem. I cannot ever walk away from an untold story. Here is the continuation of the tale I began with 'Smuggling Camels', and a possibly plausible version of Mac's escape from Afghanistan.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> -Lothithil

_There's an old saying that comes to mind;_  'Distance makes the heart grow fonder.' _I don't think that I can remember truer words... at least not while I'm running for my life. Traveling through this part of the world is always tricky, but when territorial disputes turn into small wars, it tends to make things... a little more lively. Thoughts of home were fond indeed, and I was a whole world away from where I **wanted** to be. I also would've been a lot fonder of a certain pack of Afghan terrorists- I've never met a bunch of guys who could hold on to a grudge tighter than those boys- if they were a little more distant. Unfortunately, they were hot on my trail... and getting hotter. And it was already hot enough here in the desert. I needed to find a place to hide, for myself and my ride._

_Dingo was putting forth a fine effort but he'd been on the job as long as I had, through four deserts and six countries as we circled around and hunted for the men I had been sent to find. We found 'em all right. And now they were about to find **us**_.

Mac urged Dingo over the next dune, hoping that there would be something besides more sand on the other side. He had to do something if he was going to avoid getting caught, and the chances of that happening out in the desert were slim, but he knew that they couldn't keep going like this much longer. They were both near exhaustion. Still, it wasn't in his nature to just give up.

They surged over the top of the dune and then half-slid, half fell down the further slope. It was steeper than Mac had expected. He let out a yell as he tumbled off of the camel's back, rolling along at gravity's mercy while Dingo bellowed and scrambled, his long, heavy legs becoming entangled with each other.

They came to a graceless stop at the bottom of a pit. Mac bit back a cry of pain; there was a very heavy camel lying on his legs. Luckily, the sand was soft and nothing felt broken. Dingo let out a series of grunts and didn't move.

"Come on, boy," Mac groaned, pushing at his hairy hide. "Get up! If we just sit here, they're gonna find us for sure. We left tracks that a blind man could follow across this desert." 

Dingo answered Mac's pleas by lifting his head and snapping his long yellow teeth at him. "You just don't care if we get caught or not, do ya?" Mac grumbled in frustration, trying to dig his legs free. "But then, not much can worry a mammal that tips the scales at three-quarters a ton. You big wooly slug!"

_Well, **this**  mammal was worried. I scrambled and strained, but I was stuck. The edges of the pit rose above my head, a sheer crumbling wall. Even if I still had possession of my legs, I doubt I could've climbed it. Dingo was gonna have a devil of a time getting out without some serious help._

Mac looked around sharply. This wasn't just a trough between the dunes... it was a pit! A great vast hole straight down into the sand and definitely  **not**  a result of natural erosion.

There came sounds from above Mac's head, up outside of the pit. For a minute Mac was sure that they'd been found. His heart fluttered in his throat. He was a sitting duck; the proverbial fish in a barrel.

The sounds grew louder, and suddenly the mouth of the pit began to shrink. Trickles of sand came cascading down into Mac's eyes. The noise succeeded at motivating Dingo to roll onto his belly and off of Mac's legs. He sighed with relief, staggering upright to keep from getting buried in the miniature landslide. To his dismay, he found that not only was the opening above getting smaller, but the pit was getting deeper, too. They were sinking—not into the sand, but into the depths of the earth!

A metal roof closed over the opening of the pit like the petals of a lotus in reverse bloom. Light was completely cut off. Mac felt around for Dingo's lead rope and catching it, spoke softly to the trembling animal, trying to keep himself from being trampled to death.

A grinding, whirring sound came from one wall of the pit, and a reddish light fell on Mac's face. A doorway that had been perfectly concealed opened, revealing a man. He was a little less tall than Mac was, with a fit build and a head-full of thick, wavy black hair. He was holding a lantern and a handgun.

He and Mac stared at each other for a few moments, then the man said- in perfect English colored with a downtown Chicago accent-"What in Hell's name are you two doing down here?"


	2. A Smuggler and A Gentleman

_Meeting someone from back home in this place- and at this particular time- was like walking into the Museum of Ancient Antiquities and finding the mummy of Tutankhamun wearing my L.A. Kings Hockey jersey!_

_I wanted to laugh with relief, but I wasn't sure that what I saw was real. The gun seemed real enough, though..._

 

MacGyver and Dingo both looked at the man. The man looked between Mac and the camel, waiting.

"Hi," Mac said, raising one hand in welcome. The man with the gun flinched a little, and then relaxed when he saw that Mac was not holding a weapon. Mac wiggled his fingers slightly. "Don't shoot before I get a chance to thank you."

"Thank me?" The man seemed as startled to hear Mac speak, as Mac had been to hear him. "English?" he asked hesitantly. He lowered the gun and raised the lantern. "American?" he added, his voice sounding hopeful.

"And proud of it." Mac stated. "You're from Chicago, right?"

"South side." He spun the gun around his finger like a gunslinger. "And you?"

"Minnesota."

The gun slid smoothly into a holster that the man wore strapped to his hip, western-style. "I would have placed you a little further north. You've got more than a touch of Canuk in your accent."

"I got lost a couple of times on Boy Scout hikes and wound up in Manitoba." Mac nodded toward his hairy companion. "This is Dingo. He doesn't bite... well, yes he does, but only when he has a good reason... most of the time." He slapped the beast affectionately on the flank. "My name's MacGyver."

"Anthony Sullivan," the man said, prodding himself in the chest with his thumb.

Mac extended his hand, "Thanks, Anthony."

Sullivan smiled and took Mac's hand eagerly. "You don't know how good it is to meet someone with manners in this godforsaken country!" He pumped Mac's hand heartily. "Everyone calls me 'Tony'. And what are you thanking me for?"

Overhead, there came the muffled sound of hooves pounding across the sand. Rough voices barked orders in a strange language, angry, confused, and frustrated. They sounded as if they were right on top of them.

Mac pointed up. "I'm pretty sure you just saved my life."

Tony looked up, listening. "Life's pretty cheap around here, MacGyver. Don't thank me yet."

Mac frowned. "Why not?"

"Because those might be my buyers. Didn't I say?" Tony smiled and gestured for Mac to precede him through the door. "I'm a smuggler."

xxxxxxxxxx

Mac regarded his new friend with some trepidation. "...And what is it that you're selling, Tony?"

Tony laughed at Mac's worried tone. "Not my fellow Americans... so you can relax. Come on," he said, walking ahead of Mac through the doorway. "Leave your pet camel here for a while. He'll be fine... but we'll have to move him before long... I'm expecting a drop-off."

Mac followed him slowly. The way was dark; Tony had taken the lantern with him. The door led to a tunnel that turned at a sharp angle within a few feet, then opened into a hallway. The walls were made of metal. Light filtered from ahead, silhouetting Tony as he proceeded Mac.

The hallway led out onto the floor of a large room, about half the size of a hockey rink and nearly two stories high. It was well lit, and stacked with many crates of all sized and shapes. There were racks along two of the walls stacked with different kinds of weapons, from guns as small as .22 caliber pistols to fully automatic machine guns. Boxes labeled 'ammunition', 'grenades', 'tear gas', and 'smoke', were piled around neatly. In the middle of the room stood a .50 caliber mountable machine gun, gleaming new as if it had been made yesterday.

Along another wall there was a shelf of books. Mac selected one and looked at the cover. It was a maintenance manual for a '66 Corvette Stingray.

"Boys' toys, I guess you could say," Tony said, belatedly answering Mac's question. He took the book from Mac's fingers. "They're almost as popular as the girly magazines. You'd be surprised how much money one of these will fetch."

"The manual… or the car?" Mac looked around at all the instruments of destruction displayed around him and suppressed as sigh.

Tony laughed out loud. "If I could get a Corvette over here, I could sell it for enough money to become a sheik myself and retire!" He turned off the lantern and set it on a table. "Don't look so depressed, MacGyver! You're safe down here. Unless they know exactly what they're looking for, they'll never find the missile silo or this bunker; it is so well camouflaged that even the government can't remember where they built it! It's owned by- my employer- and besides him, only me and the pilot that makes the pick-ups and deliveries knows exactly where the entrance is."

"That's not what worries me, Tony," Mac said. He gestured wearily around him. "All these weapons... it's like pouring gasoline on a fire! How can you sell them to terrorists?"

"Not everyone in Afghanistan is a terrorist, Mac. Some are just folks trying to live their lives without being pressed into someone's army or enlisted for the next weekly jihad. It's them mostly that we run the guns to... oh, there's more money in selling them to the baddies," Tony grinned at Mac, "and I'll probably catch all kinds of hell when I get home about that- but hey!- they sent me here to sell the guns... so I'll sell 'em to whoever I want to!"

"Who are you selling them for, Tony," Mac asked distantly. The room seemed to be getting darker and his arms and legs felt like they were made of lead.

"You don't want to know," Tony answered evasively. "Hey... how 'bout a drink?" He opened a drawer under the table and brought out a brown, flat bottle.

"No, thanks, I don't really drink very much. But if you've got some water-" Mac began to say. Tony noticed that he was leaning rather heavily on the table.

"You're about beat, aren't you? Here... sit down before you fall down! I'll bring you some water and then scare up some food."

Mac sank into a wooden chair and managed to stay awake long enough to drink some of the water that Tony brought him. It tasted wonderful. "Thanks again, Tony," Mac said, his head rolling to rest on the back of the chair.

"Hey, don't conk out yet!" Tony said. "There's a cot over there under the stairs. Let's settle you there. Upsy-daisy!" He pulled one of Mac's arms over his shoulders and helped him walk to the cot.

"'m gonna get sand all over your sheets," Mac mumbled as he laid down. The canvas-covered frame and thin blanket felt like a down-filled mattress to Mac as he sank down gratefully.

"I'm used to it," Tony assured him. "Take it easy for a while. I'll take care of your camel."

"Be careful..." Mac warned groggily, already half-asleep, "... he bites."

Tony let the burlap curtain fall and then pushed a rack of gas masks in front of the curtain, concealing Mac's hiding place.

"Don't we all?"


	3. Dangerous Goods

_I was at the Kerrisdale Arena, lining up a slap shot. We were in sudden-death overtime, and all of my teammates were in the penalty box, cheering me on. The other team was lined up in front of me, ready to defend their goal. There seemed to be rather a lot of them, and strangely, they were wearing turbans instead of helmets and in their hands they carried AK-47's instead of hockey sticks. Curious._

_It wasn't until a camel went skating by that I began to suspect that I was dreaming. Rationality takes a back-step, and in the moments between realizing that I was dreaming and waking up, I figured that I'd better take my shot while I could._

_I swung my stick back and gave it all I had. The puck burst into flames as it soared toward the goal. The other team lifted their guns and fired at it, but they all missed. The small, smoking missile flew unerringly toward the goal._

_The goalie leapt out of the way as it burned toward him. It struck the net, but instead of burning through, the net stretched like a rubber band and sent the puck flying back toward me. I watched it grow larger and larger, but I couldn't move out of the way. My legs were buried in sand._

_Sand? No, no... this wasn't how it was supposed to go! Who's dream was this, anyway?_

 

The sound of an angry voice pulled Mac from the dark, comfortable place where he had been lying. "This is  **not**  part of deal that I make with your boss!" The man was speaking broken English with a heavy Middle-eastern accent.

Mac opened his eyes and looked around before he moved. It was dark, but he could see a line of light coming in between the edge of the curtain and the wall. Moving carefully to avoid making the cot creak too loudly, he rose and peered out of the crack.

Tony was talking to a short, stout man with dark skin. They were sitting at the table, glasses and an open bottle between them. Tony poured the man a drink, saying, "Well, I'm amending that deal. Besides, you owe me one, Alfie... remember that shipment of ladies undergarments I had sent here from the States just for you... tell me, did her husband ever catch you two spooning?"

The man called Alfie grumbled in his native language, but he clicked his glass against Tony's in a silent toast. It became obvious to Mac that this was probably just a friendly argument between confederates. He gave a silent sigh of relief, but then his breath caught in his throat at what he heard next.

"Smuggling underwear into Afghanistan is lot less risky than try sneak American out under  _Capitan_  Rafe's very large nose! This man has a price on head... very big! And if I am spotted... ooh, my head it will be- displayed on pole over Rafe's private latrine! You ask much for one simple favor, Antony."

"Tell me again... who was that woman married to, Alfie? Prince Abu-something-or-other, wasn't it? You call that 'less risky'? Ha! If he'd seen you with her, it wouldn't've been your head that he'd stick up on a pole, you know. It would've been your..."

"Enough! You have make your point!" Alfie interrupted hastily. "But what really you know about this man, this MacAver? What if he is spy?"

"If he is... so what? He's not spying on me- or on you! If a piece of garbage like Rafe wants him dead, then that makes him my hero!" Tony drained his glass and poured another. "Will you do it or not?"

"What choice do you give me? None!" Alfie grumbled. "When?"

"I'm not sure yet. He's still asleep. Once I've talked to him I'll know more. Just plan to make the pick-up like we've discussed, and avoid Rafe's men for now. I'm supposed to meet with His Holiness later tonight."

"Brrr! Better you than me, my friend! That man has the eyes of reptiles," Alfie said with a shiver. He drained his glass. "You going to need lift, yes?"

"Nah, I'll take the tumbler."

"Fine. I'll see you tomorrow then. Don't get head shot off, please," Alfie implored.

"Awww, Alfie... I didn't know you cared!"

"I don't!" Alfie said roughly, but added with a grin, "If you get killed I don't get paid!"

"I'd miss you, too." Tony laughed, throwing Alfie his hat. "And don't spook the camel this time! It took me an hour to catch him when he ran off after you landed!"

Alfie's grumbling faded as he walked away. Tony poured himself another whiskey, but sat and stared at it without drinking. He waited until the sounds of Alfie's exit faded completely. "You can come out now, Mac," Tony announced, swirling his drink in the glass.

Mac moved the curtain aside, then stepped around the rack of gas-masks that blocked the entrance. "You heard me?"

Tony laughed. "Yeah, there's not much that goes on in the hollow tin-can that I can't hear. Ol' Alfie there- Abdul aFeyd is his real name- he's been flying a chopper for so long that he can't hear half of what he says himself!" Tony swallowed the bourbon in one shot. "How much did you hear?"

"That you plan to have him fly me out of the country," Mac saw no reason to hedge the truth. "And that you're planning to meet with someone named Rafe whom, I gather, is not an altogether pleasant person."

Tony laughed loudly. "Not quite. Oh, Rafe is a goat of a human being... that much is true! But he is not who I am meeting tonight. He's the one who searched this quarter of the desert for about ten hours after you disappeared under his nose yesterday. Whatever you did to him... he's got it bad for you!"

"How much money is he offering?" Mac walked up to the table, but he didn't sit down. Instead, he put himself through a series of stretches. His back muscles felt like a Gordian Knot after sleeping for so long on an army-issue cot.

Tony capped the liquor bottle, and then put his feet up on the table. "A thousand American dollars. That will get the rat-catcher's attention, but it's not sweet enough to interest me. I don't do business with the likes of him. I'll leave that to His Holiness."

"He's your boss, huh?" Mac asked. "Does he know I'm here?"

"No." Tony stood up, looking uncomfortable. "I'm hoping that you'll be out of here before I have to tell him anything. Alfie agreed to take you to the nearest American Embassy. You can get out of this country before Rafe raises the price high enough to tempt Alfie." He opened a cabinet that turned out to be a makeshift oven. Using a towel, he took something out of it.

"I'm not leaving," Mac said softly.

"Why the hell not?" Tony turned around, two MRE's in his hands. "Chicken or... chicken?" he asked, squinting at the labels.

Mac accepted one package. "Thanks. As long as it doesn't taste like sand, it sounds good."

"The wonders of chemical heating! I can't risk a stove... the smoke might be spotted. And besides- lighting a fire around all this ordinance?- forget about it!"

Talk was suspended while Mac ate. After he finished his MRE, Tony pushed the second one toward him, too. "G'on, I got a crateful," he said. "You're as skinny as that camel of yours. Who is eating me out of palm-leaves and compost, I might add!"

Mac laughed. "Dingo makes efficient use out of anything edible, and a lot of things that aren't!"

Tony waited until Mac was done eating and had drained his water bottle twice. "So, what's this about you not leaving... after I went to all the trouble of arranging it?"

Mac frowned. "I don't want you to think that I'm ungrateful, Tony, but I can't leave just yet."

"And again I ask... 'Why the hell not?' What are you doing here, anyway?"

Mac smiled, "You don't want to know."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Sure... throw my own words back in my face! That's gratitude!" He seemed more pleased than annoyed. "So, we both got secrets. Just tell me this- honestly- you aren't here to bust me, are you? You're not a cop or anything, right?"

"I am not a cop, and I am not here to bust you," Mac said.

"Good," said Tony, reaching for his liquor bottle again.

"But you might be able to help me find who I am after," Mac added.

Tony froze in the act of pouring. "Be careful, Mac," he said softly. "There are lines that it would cost me my life to cross."

Mac nodded. "Syndicate, right?" Tony's eyes widened slightly, but Mac raised his hand to keep him calm. "I'd already guessed as much. No one else has the capitol to run an operation like this. But like I said, I'm not with the Justice Department or Interpol. I'm looking for a traitor to our government. You may be a smuggler, Tony, but I think that you're also a patriot. Will you tell me what you can?"

Tony nodded. "But it won't be much," he warned.

"That's okay. I already have an idea who I'm looking for. Rafe's men have been chasing me for a while, ever since we fouled up a little kidnapping caper that he tried a few weeks ago. A team was sent in to rescue his hostages, and I was given the task of learning who was feeding him information from the Pentagon. I've tracked him down to a small city not far from here. He's an American, but he can probably pass off as European very easily. He's high-profile, in a position where he's trusted by the local government. Now, how many people like that can there be?"

Tony looked dazed. "Not too many, Mac. Only one, actually."

"You know who I'm talking about?" Mac asked excitedly. "Can you tell me who it is?"

"Mac," Tony said, drinking straight from the bottle, "I think you got a chopper to catch tomorrow."


End file.
